Furyborn
by Kukui
Summary: Saffie is an Easterling who has managed to live in peace in Eriador for decades. But ever since a certain raggedy ranger showed up at her doorsteps, her life has never been the same. Forced to confront the dark memories of her past, she must find her bravery again if she is to help with the destruction of the One Ring. But how is she supposed to do that if she's cursed? ?xOCXEomer
1. Chapter 1

i._ can you remember_

_who you were,_

_before the world_

_told you who you should be?_

_\- k.w._

While she was in Rivendell, she dreamt of her _majka, _and her_ kryiv _and Míriel for the first time in years. She'd been shut up in the room the elves had given her for more than a week since her arrival, too troubled and exhausted to deal with anyone's harbored prejudice towards her.

_Saffie, _her _majka _named her. She was dark-skinned and emerald eyed, average height, slender yet fit in figure, and had thick ebony hair cut short right above her shoulders. The elven clothes they lent to her only emphasized her foreignness. More than once, she had tripped and nearly caused injury to herself on the long hems and trails of fabric, and the color of the dresses looked far prettier on the pale-skinned elves than on her darker skin. She stood out like a splotch of black ink, a stain, on a beautiful, delicate painting.

The city Rivendell was unfamiliar to her, though she had heard all there was to say about the city from the man she had traveled with, Strider was what he told her to call him. She had to agree the place looked as if it came straight out of a children's fairytale. Saffie was unsure if it was the unfamiliarity of the city or her dread of the future that made her heart flounder at even the most innocent of noises: someone ringing the mid-day meal bell, the chirping of birds, the elves speaking in their fancy tongue, even the sounds of the four hobbits munching and chatting underneath her balcony. By day she sat at the foot of her bed straining to figure out the foreign words written in the books left on her bedside table. A part of her wondered why they had been left for her, to mock her? Staring at the fanciful loops of the elvish script _Tengwar _and the elegance of the penmanship gave her both pleasure and a twinge of gloom. How she wished she could understand the beautiful language! When she gave up trying to decode the language or when her admiration waned, she sat on her open balcony to take in the peaceful sceneries of Rivendell.

Outside during the day, there was much activity. An important council meeting was happening in the coming days, one she was invited to but not informed very much as to what it was about. If she hadn't known better, she might've mistaken the whole preparation for some upcoming lavish celebration. It was clear to her that elves liked to decorate for every occasion. Crates of fresh produce were being carried back and forth below her balcony and fresh garlands were made to wrap around the marbled columns and railings. In the late afternoons, an old wizard in gray robes would hum some tune about dwarves, and he'd smoke his pipeweed right below her room, much to her distaste.

"My dear, when are you going to come out of your room?" The wizard would inquire up at her, knowing she was sitting on her little bench. "There's much to explore in Lord Elrond's halls."

Saffie had half the mind to tell him she wasn't a child and that she was sure the Lord Elrond wouldn't have liked it if she treated his halls like some playground, though she was positive two of her travel companions had been running around and doing just that.

"I can see all there is to see from my balcony," she replied. He gave off a gruff guffaw but didn't say anything else. Perhaps he had been too offended to. Soon, without any additional words exchanged between them, he'd leave and that would be her only sighting of him until the next afternoon and their conversation would be repeated more or less to the same.

It was nearly November, her favorite month for many reasons. But it was getting colder, and the thin pale blue cloak she had wasn't nearly warm enough. The elves liked their rooms opened to nature, to promote the openness of minds, Strider had told her. There were no windows or walls to protect her from the elements in her room. It made her wonder how the elves were able to sleep with leaves constantly being blown onto their faces. And what about the rain or snow? Perhaps they were too perfect to let something trivial like the weather bother them like it did to mortals like her and her companions.

Because she was constantly cold and seldom went out for exercise or got enough to eat, she began to fall ill and was bedridden for the following week. It hadn't been the second or third night after falling sick that someone came knocking on her door.

"_Saffie, you cannot hide in your room for an eternity."_

When she didn't answer, Strider had invited himself in after giving a warning to get decent before he entered with or without permission.

"_Elbereth! Why have you not said anything that you were so sick? Your skin is almost as pale as mine!"_

Saffie had known the man for several years. He was always in need of a bath and was _one of them rangers. _Their first meeting was when he had broken into her little hut and helped himself to her supplies while she had been away hunting. She had to appreciate that he hadn't simply robbed her and had waited for her return so he could pay for what he took, but she would've done gladly without having a near heart attack when she arrived home late evening. The two of them had a little scuffle because of her fright, Saffie starting the whole thing by attacking him, and the man had no choice but to respond. They rolled around her floor for at least fifteen minutes, each trying to get the upper hand, knocking over her jars and furniture as they went. She was proud to say that she ended up on top, disarming the man who was well over six feet and who obviously was a practiced swordsman, until she realized he had been fighting her with a large gash across his stomach. Then she felt bad for him.

And then she spent the next hour tending to his wound. It was in that hour she came to the conclusion that he was no ordinary man. From the way he twitched and seemed nearly repulsed by her touches to the pretty and expensive ring he had on his finger to the word choice and syntax of his Westron when he spoke to her. His discomfort at their closeness as she stitched his wound made her annoyed, he would simply not stay still enough for her to do the work correctly. What a _proper boy _he was! She had to admit it was probably because they were in such a compromising position, but it wasn't like she had a choice. She _had _to squeeze herself between his legs and rest her elbows on his upper thighs for stability. There was no way she was going to let him lay on her bed with the amount of dirt and grime that was on him, and the man had adamantly refused to lie on the floor. When the situation was over with, she quite literally placed her hand on his back and shoved him out her little hut, then slamming the door in his face of disbelief.

But the damage was already done in their short introduction. Saffie had seen his ring, and the man had seen the marred skin on her right wrist where a brand had been painfully etched. Though he had left her mostly alone for the next five years, with the occasional visit to purchase medicinal remedies and other supplies, she knew he would not be forgetting her, especially not since she was so sorely misplaced among the other pale-skinned, light-haired people of the western region of Eriador.

Her age, or rather her lack of aging, was also a huge mystery to the man and something that brought him back to her with a burning curiosity. On one evening on a visit to her little hut, he had been so sure she must've been one of the Eldar that he began to speak to her in a mix of Sindarin and Quenyan. She merely stared back at him in unadulterated confusion.

"_Are you not one of the Eldar? A dark elf perhaps?" _He had asked her when he realized she had not understood a single word of what he said, much less recognized the language.

"_Should I be flattered? I heard that the beauty of elves is unparalleled."_

He had thrown his head back and laughed. It was likely then, much to her chagrin, he had begun to consider her a friendly acquaintance and desired to earn her friendship.

Strider, in the following days, sought to visit her more often, pestering her with questions upon questions about her. What her story was, how she came to speak Westron so fluently, how old she was - which was immediately met with a pointed look and a comment about how that was a forbidden question to women, earning her another one of his amused chuckles - and many, many other questions. For a year, she had to suffer his persistent appearance, and he almost seemed to enjoy the annoyance he was igniting.

"_I'll leave you alone if you answer my questions, Saffie."_

"_Trust goes both ways." _She had scowled at him.

"_Wise words. Very well, a question for a question then." _A sly grin had shot across his face.

What should've been an evening spent knowing the other better, it turned into a battle of words and wits. Strider did not want to reveal anything unless she loosened her tongue, and she was unrelenting. Saffie had never seen such a frustrated look on his face when he left her little hut that evening; he hadn't even bothered taking any of her supplies when he stormed out. His visits stopped after that, and for a while, she thought it was good he was gone but then she got oddly lonely. Was this another tactic he was devising to loosen her tongue?

When the thoughts of Strider were nearly gone from mind, he showed up one night, breaking into her little hut with four hobbits in tow. She had only ever seen a small handful of hobbits and knew little to nothing about them except that they were shorter and hairier than the Race of Men. But she decided she rather liked them, or at least she liked the four hobbits she came to know. One of the hobbits commented when they saw her: _"Woah, I never thought the Witch of Ebonywoods would be so pretty." _And at the same time, she turned to Strider and asked in all seriousness: _"You have children?" _He did not laugh, and instead he roughly pulled her to him and into a corner to converse with some privacy.

He argued harshly with her for what felt like hours with the four hobbits staring at the two of them in a mix between wonder and fear. In that moment, she realized that he was scarcely the raggedy ranger she had picked at for years prior; he was different. Strider didn't quite fit him anymore.

"_Did you not once tell me you would sooner fight than return back to the Dark Lord as a servant?"_

"_I know what you ask for, but you cannot ask this for me. I want to live the rest of my life here in my Ebonywoods, in peace and undisturbed."_

"_You will have neither! All the Free-Peoples will have neither if you do not help us."_

"_Why must I help?"_

"_What do you desire Saffie? Gold? Jewels? If you send us away, we will not survive the night."_

"_I cannot be paid off!"_

"_No, you would simply stand and watch while lives are given, and homes are lost. I have been mistaken all these years."_

Strider did not look any more apologetic in the weeks following, not until she fell ill in Rivendell, and he realized he had been neglecting her. That night while ominous screeches could be heard outside in the wind, she prepared a small pack: food provisions, a waterskin, her bedroll, flint, a bar of soap, medicine, and fresh bandages. While she busied, she let the hobbits eat their fill of whatever they wanted in her little hut, much to their delight. Then as they laid their bodies down for sleep, one of the hobbits, who she could tell was fascinated by all the herbs and fruit she grew, asked if he could take some of her produce with him. She numbly nodded towards him in the dark, "You may take whatever you want and as much as you need, but you will have to carry it yourself to Rivendell." The way his eyes sparkled cheered her up a little.

In the morning, before dawn, Saffie was first to rise and woke the man and the four hobbits. Fully clothed in traveling garb: matching linen tunic and trousers that fit too big for her, a leather corset belt that held her scimitar at her side, a pair of over-the-knee leather boots; on her back she strapped a larger blade and her bow and quiver, and a thin cloak and leather gloves for extra warmth - she did not miss the way the hobbits stared up at her appearance in awe.

Saffie was a woman of the eastern lands. They called her an Easterling, even though she knew nothing of the land she supposedly had been born in; she felt that her knowledge of the western lands was a lot better. She thought herself fortunate enough to have forgotten the horrors of slavery, when she served as a young girl, but with it were also the memories of her _majka._

Thanks to her fever, she begun to have a lot of weird and extremely vivid dreams, at times she thrashed around hardly knowing if it was day or night or where the line between reality and her dreams laid. More than once, her heart lurched painfully, seeking for someone to dote on her like her _majka _in the dreams. On the worst of the nights, she dreamt of her _kryiv _and Míriel.

Saffie was back in a little cabin in the woods, a place she came fondly to know as home. She was standing in front of the fireplace, her favorite spot in the whole cabin, sketching away at Míriel's feet who sat in a chair knitting a scarf. Her _kryiv _suddenly came up next to her and took her into his arms; she was seven years old again. At the sight of him, she was paralyzed with happiness; it was her _kryiv_ down to the last detail, the very pattern of his wrinkles and the way his salt and pepper beard grew on his chin. He was smiling at her, so bright and handsomely, and just as he brought her close to him so he could kiss her on the cheek, a burning fire dashed between them and he was gone just like that.

_Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,_

_ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul._

_One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,_

_One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them._

Her dream space burnt around her with a ravenous fire. A shadowy figure stood before her, its hand on her - squeezing, burning, shaking her-

Ghuramu shirkush' agh azgushu.

Zant ya apakurizak.

_Gûl-n' anakhizak._

_A sacrifice of blood and bone._

_A bridge for you to follow._

_You will emerge a shadow._

"Saffie, awake! It is just a bad dream."

It was nearly dark when Saffie jolted awake in bed, breathing hard. The air was chilly; goose bumps forming on her arms and shoulders, and she could see her breath coming out in light, airy puffs. Someone was sitting beside her tangled mess of dewy limbs and crumbled sheets; she flinched away when the cool, wet flannel draped across her forehead.

"It was just a dream." The man beside her soothed.

Strider: he looked every part of the important, proper man she had expected he was, so unlike the raggedy man she was used to seeing. His rags were no longer poor but of a regal navy color and an expensive velvety texture. Taking in his sight, she suddenly became envious of him. She remembered why she had been so cross with him for the past weeks. _An important man playing in the wilds._ Never starved, she guessed sourly, never having to work himself to the bone to survive, had a sweetheart waiting for him somewhere, and who was she? She had dreamt for years, wishing she could be a proper princess of some faraway kingdom of Man. But she wasn't anyone important. Her dreams of being a proper princess were just fantasies, they would never come true. She would _never_ be anyone important, not with her birthright. She was Saffie, a child born out of wedlock, the daughter of a slave and a slave herself. She was no one.

"So that's what you actually look like?" She mumbled at him. "Your hair is actually a dark brown?"

"I am glad that you still have your wit and sense of humor even on your death bed." He huffed a sigh but gave her a gentle smile, one she hadn't seen him give her in a while, not since the night he brought the hobbits to her doorstep. "The council you were invited to has gone and passed this morning. You have been sick with a fever for more than a week. I worry for you, Saffie. You act out your nightmares as if they were real. Lord Elrond is a master healer, and yet his remedies have done nothing to calm that fever of yours nor chased away those bad dreams."

"Do not fret, I will not perish if that is what you are worried about. What time is it?"

She tried to turn away from him. She was trying hard to be agreeable, but the man picked up on her tone; he stilled her movements by tucking her in like a father would a child and looked at her closely, as if trying to figure out what she was thinking.

Things would've turned out better if she had never met this man, if she had simply ended him instead of letting him go. Everything had been normal. Simple. The life she had always wanted - she remembered a few weeks before the fateful night, eating a late supper on a blanket in her gardens, and how the stars twinkled down at her, the eastward breeze tasting of the salty seas - an ordinary evening. But of course, her life had never gone as planned.

"Not yet time for dinner, about five o'clock in the late afternoon. Sleep some more, Saffie. I will return later with stew and to change your flannel. Lord Elrond will come by to see if you would be able to stomach another draught to bring down your fever." He said to her.

"I can do it myself, and you can tell him I will be fine by tomorrow morning without the draught."

"You cannot stay mad at me for an eternity, Saffie. I do not have an eternity to spare. I have already offered you my sincerest apologies for my harsh words, what else would you have me do?"

Her mind whirled with troubles. Her fated meeting with this _important _man was only the tip of the iceberg. She wasn't daft. She had fought the orcs inching westwards; she had heard the elves sing of the fate of the world as they traveled on route to sail to paradise in Valinor; she had seen the golden glimmer of the _trinket_ carried by the dark-haired hobbit; she had known exactly what events were about to unfold when the ring-wraiths appeared.

Neither living or dead, ring-wraiths, or _nâzgul _as Strider called them, cursed to forever desire after the _one ring _that bound all other rings for the Dark Lord, the _one ring _the Dark Lord sought to use to enslave all. Her dreams for the most part had been muddied with the same anxiety and unknown fear that gripped her in her waking moments. She had tried to live in peace and undisturbed in her little hut between Bree and Combe, and it had been pure bliss. Oh, how she wished she could close her eyes and return when she opened them again!

The way his dark, bushy eyebrows furrowed together made her soften her scowl. He was quite handsome indeed under all the muck and grime. _Definitely Míriel's type_, she thought of the young woman in her dreams.

Saffie huffed a big sigh up at the man. "If you bring me food, I will have to forgive you."

He threw his head back and laughed, exactly in the same manner she first remembered him doing so. She frowned deeply when she heard his next words. "I forgot you are like the hobbits. Pray tell, where does all the bread go?"

"How do you even have a sweetheart? Why would anyone like you? You're horrible." She quipped without missing a beat.

Unexpectantly, he gave her a curt joyless laugh. "How did you know?" He asked wistfully; he stared at her, troubled and gloomily, though she had a feeling he wasn't really looking at her.

_Girl troubles?_

"How could someone not fancy you? You have many good traits." The words of comfort left her before she could stop herself, the very same ones that she often uttered to Míriel whenever she had her heart broken by some dumb boy. Saffie didn't miss the way he stilled at her compliment.

_Important, noble, honorable, knowledgeable. _All of which she wasn't, she thought derisively as she stared up into his eyes.

His eyes lit up with mirth and he started to say something - but Saffie shut her eyes to feign sleep. She heard him take a deep breath, then squeezed her arm and left wordlessly. Afterwards, she fluttered her eyes open and clawed away her blankets to get to her feet. She could scarcely move her limbs without a hot throb passing through her muscles, but she needed to do something to keep her mind busied.

Whenever she thought about anything prior to her little hut in Eriador, she felt nauseated. It had been years, decades in fact, since the death of her _kryiv, _her master who she loved in more ways than one, and Míriel, who she both fought with but was fond of like a sister.

Why had she survived, and they had not?

The illness made Saffie feel like a prisoner in her room, even more after her banter with Strider, which had left her anxious and alone. She needed to find something her mind could focus on. It was her first time in Rivendell. She'd seen almost nothing of the city and yet the room itself, in its glittering beauty, gave a keen sense of the elven city. She shivered terribly as she left the warmth of her bed. She forced her mind to take in every inch of the guest room the elves had given her. The room itself was like a model of elvish culture in miniature: shimmering colors of gold, pearly white, and forest green, and mingled with rich wooden elvish-made furniture. Her body protested every movement, but she made her way over to scrutinize the tiny pair of gilt-framed oils hanging over the bureau. One was of wildflowers and the other was of the sky. They were decorative paintings, nothing special like the big ones she had seen elsewhere in passing, but she studied them intensely all the same, taking in the delicate brushstrokes.

"Saffie, I am back with some stew."

She scantly had the chance to jump back into bed when the ornate wooden doors opened, first a crack, then all the way, to reveal Strider who was flanked by the grey wizard Gandalf and the Lord of Rivendell Elrond.

"Saffie-" she could tell Strider was so immensely exasperated he didn't know what to say to her. He was quick to place the bowl containing her stew on her bedside table, snatch her by the upper arm and take her back to her bed. "You are a skilled healer yourself; you should know better the needs of your body more than anyone." He finally said to her, handing her a bowl of hot stew when she was settled into a sitting position against pillows.

"I will be fine come tomorrow morning." She mumbled, and just as she was about to say more, a round of wet coughs interrupted her.

A flicker of sympathy passed over Strider's face.

The elf-lord too held a similar expression as he walked around to the other side of her bed to take her temperature and pulse, "Forgive me for neglecting you, I have not tended to you very well as your host. I will ask someone to draw up a warm bath for you. Afterwards, we will move you to one of the inner guest rooms, away from the open air."

"No really, I will be fine- "

"Saffie, you will not defy Lord Elrond's orders. You best listen to him so you can be on the mend from your sickness." A pause. "By the way," the gray wizard said, leaning closer to her, over Strider's shoulder, "that is a lovely necklace. Is it a family heirloom?"

For a blink, Saffie looked surprised. For reasons she would have found difficult to explain, she had taken to wearing a circular, jade pendant beneath her shirts away from prying eyes. It was a memento from her _majka, _the only thing that held some significance to who she might've been. She had never taken it off or shown it to anyone, mostly she toyed around with it when no one was around. Likely from all her thrashing, the pendant had slipped out from under the neckline of her sleeping shirt.

"May I see it?"

She took it off and dropped it into Strider's awaiting palm who marveled at it for a moment before handing it off to the wizard. "Lovely," he said, "pure jade, and a vibrant green color, kind of like your eyes. It's very old and _very_ valuable" - he then handed it back to her - "I cannot seem to recall where I have seen it before however."

"Who gave you the necklace, Saffie? Your mother or your father perhaps?" Strider jumped in.

When she didn't respond, Strider's lips drew a thin, pink line across his face. He sighed, with his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, "You remain so tight-lipped about yourself. _We _do not know what to believe about you, so help us clear these misunderstandings. Do you not trust me still? I have promised you that I will not speak freely of what you choose to share with me. Lord Elrond and Gandalf will hold the same promise."

He continued, "I recognize _that _mark upon your wrist. You are fair and feel foul as an enemy would, but I wish to believe you are not a spy of the Dark Lord. Long have Easterlings been an ally of him and wreaked havoc on the free peoples of the West. Because of this, I struggle still to entirely trust that you will not betray me for your own gain if I were to let you free and leave you alone. Not many can recognize my ring by one mere glance. How did you come to have such knowledge? Speak, Saffie, I beg you!"

Saffie wrenched away from the grip he had on her shoulders. She was miserable, not anywhere near to recovering from her illness, and her temper wasn't much better. "I know not of the secrets of your ring, but you are trying to suggest that there is. I merely glanced upon it and thought it pretty and expensive, far too precious for a shaggily man of the wild like you to have. So, I assumed you may have been someone of importance running around, playing in the wilds, but who specifically, I couldn't care less of.

"Then what do you care for? What do you desire, Saffie?" Gandalf asked lowly.

"Nothing. I desire nothing." She murmured, after a thought, she then added, "If it pleases you and will make you leave me alone, my mother gave me the pendant, and I have always remembered having it. She died when I was three or four, and with her death, she took the secrets of my paternity."

Saffie studied her bowl of stew intently afterwards. Strider had brought her some chicken soup, with a hearty helping of kale and potatoes, and it tasted smooth and light but not lacking in rich flavor. She sipped at it slowly, her stomach flipping in joy after not having had anything to eat for nearly a week. The silence was uncomfortable, especially so when the three males gazed at her with such burning, calculating eyes while she tried terribly hard to act unfazed. They saw her as an enemy. That had been cleared up. It had never been her intention to be the enemy. She had little doubt that if it had not been the adamant pleads and opinions of her character said by Strider and the hobbits, she would not have been so welcomed in the halls of Rivendell. She felt her anger bubbling up again. She did not come to suffer their prejudices or their interrogations, and she would not let them intimidate her or mistreat her.

But after the males left her to rest wordlessly, she felt her heart begin to flounder as it did before with unknown swirls of emotions. One minute she was filled with such dread it made her sick, the next she was so furious again at everything she wanted to jump up and drive her scimitar into something or someone. Then, at the end of it all, she was filled with despair. Long had she desired to be someone important like a princess of an exotic, faraway kingdom, to lie in riches and to wear luxurious cloths like the males before her, and now, she wished she could've sunk into her borrowed bed, lay flat against its soft, billowy sheets, and simply disappear. Left alone to continue living as the woman who others never gave a second glance to, the _Witch of Ebonywoods _people avoided like the plague, Saffie the daughter of a slave, the nobody.

She tried to fight off the sleeping draught the elf-lord gave her. It hadn't been strong enough to knock her out immediately, but as it worked its way into her system it kept her dizzy and anxious. Again, she found her reality and dreams mixed in muddied states where she couldn't tell if the shadowy figure looming over her was imagined or real.

_A sacrifice of blood and bone._

_A bridge for you to follow._

_You will emerge a shadow._

_Nyzzuv grohmärg ohbrdazbürdrüth bärg. (You will desolate all.)_


	2. Chapter 2

ii._time will reveal_

_whose loss it truly was_

_\- gisselle gullianna_

Saffie did not want to think about her future - for though she had scarcely been looking forward to what Strider or Gandalf or anyone might spring on her about the happenings of the council she missed - she now began to seriously worry about what was to happen to her. Everyone seemed profoundly shocked she was planning to leave tomorrow back to her little hut in her Ebonywoods. And she, more furious than shocked, found that she couldn't.

"_I let Strider stay at my hut and I have helped in getting the hobbits safely to Rivendell, what more do you ask of me? Why won't you let me go?" Saffie demanded._

"_Saffie, we are not holding you prisoner, but we cannot just let you go. The enemy knows of you now, and if we were to let you go off alone, you would stand no chance in escaping capture." _Elrond argued.

"_Capture? Are you afraid of me giving away your secrets or are you concerned about my life?" _She had questioned darkly.

Then it was Gandalf who revealed her deepest fears,_ "Both, if it matters to you. We cannot let you go because the enemy now knows of your whereabouts." _\- A pause, Gandalf's face turning grave. - "_I owe you a thousand apologies for my mistake. When Strider first confided in me that he had met a young Easterling woman, I was extremely curious. I told Saruman, the wisest of my order, about you, and thus in doing so, I revealed where you were. Though he did not confide in me much about you, he knew who you were as soon as I spoke. Do not blame Strider, it was I who betrayed his trust and yours in him."_

"_Moreover, you were terribly sick with a fever yesterday. It is a miracle you have recovered so instantaneously- " _Elrond had begun but did not get to finish.

The scowl on her face scared the elves terribly, some even risked injury to dive out of her rampaging path. Her temper did not stifle until she reached the privacy of her guestroom. Once inside, she threw herself on her bed and tried to overcome her despair. She really should return back to Elrond's study so that they could finish recounting the events of the council, but every time she started to get up, she was overcome with such dread, and she had to sit back down. For a moment, all she could do was think of how she could survive the coming days_. _But she managed to wrestle her mind away from that, to think about the immediate future, not how her life was going to be like years from now. Saffie made a decision then, she would not hear about what occurred at the council, it did not concern her, and she would leave immediately. She would not return to her little hut, and instead would travel even farther west, as far away as possible from Saruman in Isengard and Mordor and make a new life there.

The packing process helped clear her head. She was what the people of Bree would call a neat freak. The funny thing was as a child she was entirely the opposite. A young Saffie never saw the need to take baths or keep any of her belongings organized. Her reasoning was simple. She would eventually get dirty again from all the hunting she did with her _kryiv, _and her belongings would eventually end up disorganized one way or another. She must've been such a pesky little thing to Míriel who desired that everything was clean and neat as can be.

She caught a glance of her reflection on a marbled column. The elves had it so well polished its surface was reflective: her short ebony hair tussled wildly, her eyes red with unshed tears, and the brand in the shape of an eye on her right wrist, so disgustingly marred onto her dark-olive skin.

_All ruined by that man, _she thought, her mind imagining their first meeting, the raggedy ranger in her little hut: sitting at her table, smoking his pipe, humming to himself and waiting for her. Then she remembered the inappropriateness of how she stitched his wound, kneeled before him between his legs, scandalously close to his privates, his awful stench masking something pleasant of dewy freshness and of musky, sweet sandalwood, her fingers nimbly poking and pulling silk thread through hot skin. _You should have never helped him!_ She had been content living the way she did for years.

_Content. _A contentment she _deserved. _Standing under the honeyed sun, enjoying a simple life filled with normal chores in the morning and doing whatever she liked in the afternoon whether that was baking or cooking, swimming or walking, tending to her garden or sketching away the afternoon. Making enough by selling her produce and medicine, working part-time in the kitchens of the Prancing Pony Inn in Bree, completing little quests on the task boards in Bree and Combe.

Saffie took a deep breath to will all emotions away. It was noon now, and the midday meal bell had just rung. The elves would all be taking a break for lunch. If she took the eastern exit out of the city, she would eventually reach a stretch of thick forested land, it was hilly, and it would make it difficult for horses to come after her if anyone decided to.

Too bad she never made it farther than outside her room. Her nose immediately crashed into a solidly built chest when she stepped out.

"Ow!" She cried in both surprise and pain.

Hands came gripped her shoulders, steadying her.

"You are leaving."

Saffie shuddered. Deep and gravelly, Strider's voice was distinct, and it carried clearly, bidding, as if he dared anyone to disrespect him. He was the last person Saffie wanted to run into.

"Did Lord Elrond and Gandalf not inform you the dangers of leaving? The enemy now knows of you and knows you have traveled with the One Ring."

"And whose fault is that?" She snapped, her words so sharp and vicious she reminded Aragorn of a hostile hound.

"Peace Saffie, I am not your enemy." He replied slowly, remaining mostly undisturbed by how Saffie was talking back to him.

"No, but apparently I am an enemy to everyone here in Rivendell."

"Perhaps if you were sweeter and you did not hold so fast to your secrets then you would not have made yourself an enemy. You would be able to prove everyone's prejudices wrong." This time, his tone rose.

"So, it is entirely my fault?"

"Do not put words in my mouth, Saffie." He hardened a glare at her.

A subtle shift in the air lifted the hairs on her nape. The man's grip tightened around her shoulders, but his thick eyebrows furrowed together, softening his features into something she recognized was empathy. "Listen to me, you cannot return to your little hut, Saffie. It is gone, the nâzgul have destroyed it, set it aflame. There is nothing left of your Ebonywoods but ashes." Strider said, releasing her only when she stopped moving.

"That's fine, there was nothing valuable there anyways. I will just build another." She replied without even batting an eye.

"Nothing of value?" A dark raised eyebrow quirked down at her, and she saw him reach behind to pull out a leather-bound booklet into view. Her sketchbook!

She reached to take it, but Strider quickly pulled it out of reach.

"Asürin, it is a pretty name." Strider said lowly to her, testing her.

She flinched violently. The foreign syllables twanged with a slight accent, but he rolled the 'r' in her name near perfect, just how her _kryiv _would. Her gaze flashed up to his, and Strider stiffened at the guarded hostility in her eyes. She fought off her grimace as she saw the recognition swirl in his eyes. He knew Asürin belonged to her.

"I find it peculiar that a Rhûnic name is written on the first page of this sketchbook while there is an embossing of a tree on the corners of the back cover. If you look closely it is not just any ordinary tree, it is the symbol of Gondor, the white tree with its gems above its branches. The parchment inside are also of the highest quality, very hard to come by. It was not purchased by any small sum."

Saffie remained unwavering in her stare. "I am not a thief if that is what you're implying."

He heaved a sigh, "You are putting words in my mouth again."

She stared at him, then to where one of his hand still gripped her shoulder, letting their silence play out. It unnerved her, but she didn't dare break it, both a mercy on herself and the man before her. The silence seemed to unsettle the man too as she hoped.

"Come with me," he finally relented.

Without permission, he forcibly threaded her arm through his and begun to lead her down a hallway. In a moment of spitefulness, she fell slack against him so she would be dead weight behind him. He glared at her and she felt a bright flare of pain in her shoulder when he yanked her forward. Reluctantly, she had to begin walking again or else she feared her shoulder would become dislocated. She settled with digging her nails silently into the skin of his arm, the sleeve of his velvety tunic did little to prevent the faint grimaces from creeping on his face. Every time her temper flared a little at whatever she was thinking, she dug her nails farther in. Despite their matching strides and linked arms looking as if they were an affectionate couple, no one could miss their expressions (much less the ever-intuitive elves) - one red in the face with an unspoken fury, the other getting paler and paler at an unseen pain.

When she wasn't throwing glares up at him that threatened to flay him into ribbons, she was glancing through various open doorways that led into and out of the halls they were walking down. She meticulously took note where each turn led to and where the elves seemed to congregate the most, watching, measuring, planning her escape. This did not go unnoticed by Strider, who began to lengthen his stride, tugging her along quicker to prevent her from being able to memorize anything. Saffie began to suspect he also took the long way around to confuse her, taking more jerky turns and making them pass by the same vases twice.

"If we were outside in the gardens, I would not mind meandering as much. Your efforts to confuse me are doing very little other than tiring me out and putting me in a grumpier mood. I suggest you just take me to wherever you wish to take me," she said.

She watched his mouth twitch at one corner at her words, even as she allowed her nails to retract from their stinging, the man remained wordless. Ah, he must be so cross with her, he was now punishing her with his silence. At least it seemed they had stopped walking in circles.

They reached the doors of Lord Elrond's study without either of them breaking their oath to silence. Because Strider had dragged her along to his long strides, she was a little out of breath, and as much as she hated to admit it, after spending nearly two weeks in bed, her legs were not prepared for the sudden jog. When she wrenched her hand free of his - just as he let go of her - she nearly lost her balance and fell backwards on the marbled floors. Her eyes instantly darted to Strider's, determined to see if he had done so on purpose. He didn't spare a glance at her.

She scowled at him, who eased open the large oak doors, the same ones she had ran out of just an hour ago. Inside, Lord Elrond and Gandalf sat in the exact same spots as where she had left them. The only difference in the room from before was the tray of food and a plush armchair laid out seemingly just for her.

"Ah, thank you for finding our young runaway, my friend." Gandalf spoke to Strider and then he gave a wink to Saffie when he caught her disgruntled look. "And I see you caught her just in time."

When she refused to step inside, even as three pairs of eyes stared at her in expectation, Strider groaned and stuck out a hand to grab her. She twisted away, less than graceful, but satisfactory in avoiding his grasp. Except he reached out again as she was recovering, and she was captured. As his punishment, she gave a hard pinch and twist on the skin of his upper arm. He yelped, much to her satisfaction.

"Sit." Strider growled at her, his hands on her shoulders, pushing her inside and then shoving her down on the plush armchair. She fought back as he tried to take her pack and bow and quiver from her, which only made him rougher in pushing her into the armchair and tugging her things off.

The temptation to pull out her scimitar and slash at him was almost more than she could resist. And as if he sensed the looming threat, he quickly drew her scimitar from her sheath, walking away with it before she could even react.

"Aragorn will not rob you of your things, calm yourself. We have much to discuss, so I suggest you make yourself comfortable. Eat," said the wizard, waving his staff to emphasize the food in front of her.

She sat down and allowed herself to enjoy a short comfort from how soft the armchair was. It was fuzzy and plush, exactly how it looked. She frowned at the almost relieved expression that settled over Strider's face as he gathered her things against a wall some ways away from her.

"Middle-Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. You know the One Ring has been found, Saffie. We have only one choice. The Ring must be destroyed, cast into the fiery pits of Mordor to be unmade for it cannot be unmade by any craft we possess." Elrond picked up immediately, like she hadn't left the conversation earlier, as if they were all afraid she might take off again - which was not without base, she _was_ planning to take off and she would've if it wasn't for Strider standing guard at the door.

Elrond circled around her in a slow glide, his golden robes sweeping behind him with such grace only one of the Eldar could have. Briefly, Saffie thought of all the near injuries she caused herself from tripping on the long fabrics of the elvish gowns they lent to her, she grimaced internally.

"Frodo has taken up the burden of carrying the ring to Mordor and destroying it, though it never should have fallen on him. Currently, six other members have been decided to accompany Frodo and they leave in two months' time. Myself and Aragorn being two, the other four are Legolas Greenleaf, an elf prince of the Woodland Realm, Boromir son of the Denethor, Steward of Gondor, Gimli son of Gloin, a dwarf, and Samwise Gamgee, one of your hobbits." Gandalf continued where Lord Elrond left off.

"It is a long and treacherous journey to Mordor, and beyond its black gates there are tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of orcs and other foul creatures that stand in the way of our success. But there is hope yet, you know the lands of Mordor, you know its terrain and its secrets, you managed to escape." Strider said lowly to her, looking down at her under thick, dark eyelashes. He had come up beside her without her even knowing.

"I consider myself fortunate that I do not remember the horrors of my time in Mordor. I know what you are trying to ask. I'm sorry, I cannot help you, I do not remember anything of value to you or to Frodo." She replied back, meeting his gaze sternly.

"You cannot remember, or you will not remember?" Strider regarded her coolly. "You talked in your sleep while you were ill, though it was not my intention to eavesdrop, I know what plagues your nightmares."

"Then why do you ask of me this task?" There was a slight accusation in her words.

His eyebrows furrowed together in distraught, "I do not dare ask. I only wish for it. It is too grave a task for me to ask you of it. You must make the decision yourself." Strider clapped her shoulder twice. He might've thought his hand was warm and comforting but Saffie thought it just opposite, extremely heavy. "You have two months to decide."

A bitter taste stung her mouth. The_ One Ring, _she realized as she nibbled absently at a slice of bread. _It has been found. Sauron will soon rise again. _It hit her like a physical blow. She suddenly wanted a drink of something strong. Badly. A jug of wine would make the worries go away, and the aches too. Unfortunately, there was no wine or ale at the little table of bread and cheeses.

"_The siege lasted seven years, but finally Elendil and Gil-galad threw down Sauron, though they both were slain in the struggle. It was then Isildur, son of Elendil, who took up the hilt shard of his father's sword and cut the One Ring from Sauron's finger to finish him. He had a chance to destroy evil, once and for all, but Isildur took the ring for himself and evil was allowed to endure. Thus, for nearly three-thousand years, we have lived in a facade of peace, waiting unknowingly as the Dark Lord regains power, until he one day has the One Ring in his possession."_

She remembered her _kryiv _telling her this story, and how he sometimes made her recite it or write it down to practice her Westron. As a child, the story brought her great terrors, enough that it made her pray to the Valar every day that the prophesies of Sauron's rise to power would not happen while she lived.

In the minds of the elves, and of Gandalf and Strider, there was little question that Saffie was a mysterious woman, so unlike the stereotypes they had kept for so many years. Exactly what kind of woman she was beneath all her strange and uncouth mannerisms left everyone at a loss. She could see it all on their faces.

Saffie knew what Strider thought of her as he escorted her back to her room from the meeting. _Dishonorable, selfish, a coward. _He didn't bother hiding his frustration, his jaw was tense, and he stared ahead with a guarded look in his eyes.

No one would understand her. They could not have understood even had she tried to tell them of all her secrets, the fears she held and importantly her _curse_. For minds like theirs, besieged constantly by thoughts of altruistic acts for valor and in honor, her fears, if spoken out, would be belittled or worse, another reason for their scorn. She scarcely cared of what everyone thought of her, but she was not uncaring as everyone thought she was. There was a part of her that felt pain at the thought of Frodo having to go on such a journey. This, she agreed wholeheartedly on, the burden should never have fallen on him, on an innocent hobbit who scarcely had the skills to survive in the wild, beat down orcs, or knew the horrors of Mordor. An innocent hobbit who desired nothing to be back in his home and enjoying the simple life of eating bread, tending to his garden and home, and smoke pipe-weed.

Her eyes stung as she glanced around at the elvish interior, how beautiful the details were on trimmings and moldings, how grandiose yet homey Rivendell was. Strider must've mistaken her wandering eyes for ones calculating how she should escape - he hissed down at her, "You would doom us all if you ran. Lord Elrond can shelter you and protect you in Rivendell. If you will not come on the quest, you will remain here in Rivendell and remain out of trouble until the _One Ring _is destroyed. It is the least you can do."

Like a thunderbolt, she spun and shoved Strider against the nearest wall. Despite his much broader and taller frame, Saffie easily pinned him down, he squirmed in her grip, trying to push her back but found quickly that his strength did not budge her, his actions only made her hold onto him even tighter. Her arm was still captured in his, but she had twisted the both of them in such a way she had rendered his immoveable.

"The least I can do? It was _you _who came to _me. _I have helped enough. I should have never bothered to stitch you up _that evening. _I should have slit your throat where you stood when I had the chance." She snarled up at him. A bubble of tears was lodged between her temples, but she was beyond weeping, she would not weep. She had wept enough. Her eyes were dry, have been dry for a long time, _very long time._

She took a shaky breath, "I know what you think of me. What you all think of me. A coward, selfish, someone who lacks honor. I will accept all those, I do not care. But do not come to me with such scorn when it was you who begged me for help with those four hobbits in tow. It is _you _who _owes me_. Pray tell, if I come on this quest, will you take responsibility for what happens to me, better yet, to the quest for my wrongdoings? Will you be able to repay me for what you owe? Will you be able to bear this burden?"

Saffie saw it in his eyes. Stunned. Anguish. Anguished for what her words meant and what she could possibly face on the quest. His expression shuttered, and he opened and closed his mouth like a gaping fish, finding himself utterly speechless.

She raised herself up on the tips of her toes, to hiss one last thing to him, in a manner as menacing as she could. Though her words did not contain threats to cause some physical pain to him or his untimely death, they were no less threatening in their own way. "It is not because I will not come. It is because I cannot. Understand this. It is the _least you can do._"

With all _that_ shoved down his throat, she retracted herself from him. Her mouth drew a thin line, her visage dark, she gave the man one last look, now pinning him to his spot through a glare only, she turned and disappeared quickly from his sight.

**AN: HELLLOOOOO! Urgh I don't know why I am starting another story when I have a gazillion unfinished ones. But I was particularly inspired after watching **_**Aladdin**_** and reading **_**Throne of Glass **_**and also playing **_**Shadow of Mordor**_**, so basically this story is the combination of all those. I feel like my writing has always been very black and white and lacked complexities as well as world building, so I am trying to incorporate more of both in this story. Saffie is a bit of a trite character - at least that's how I have her mapped out right now, as a place to start, but I am hoping as the chapters go on, I can add more dimensions to her, bringing some new skins to her and hopefully making her into a more complex character with an in-depth backstory (which I am not entirely sure what I want yet). Thanks for reading!**


End file.
